


New Impressions

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (to a point), Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Season 8 compliant, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, background and temporary Shiro/Curtis, my apologies to Louisa May Alcott and Greta Gerwig
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23759641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: "Do you really want to know how I am, or are you just being polite? Your due diligence as a friend? Do you expect an honest answer?""Of course I do," Shiro says, still startled. He hasn't heard this vitriol from Keith the entire time, for years, even—but never directed at him."I despise you."Shiro visits Keith during his and Curtis's separation. Keith isn't pleased.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 164





	New Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another [Twitter fic](https://twitter.com/annaofaza/status/1250508670980386816?s=20) I got around to posting! I love Amy March letting Laurie have it, so...sheith remix?

Anyone who sees Shiro knows exactly who he is, so he's taken care to attempt to remain incognito—or as much as he can with a floating robot arm. He's worked with the Holts to make it more compact and less glowing, which has distracted him more than he would like to admit.

It still floats, but a cloak—which has become stylish recently, thankfully—thrown over his shoulders takes care of that. He also buys an over-the-counter hair dye, making sure not to miss his eyebrows.

He lets the Garrison knows of his plans, fuels up a ship (Atlas is too conspicuous, and the Holts want to make some upgrades anyway), crams everything he thinks he'll need in a duffel bag, and leaves without a goodbye.

So when he lands on Oria, there's no newscasts on Admiral Takashi Shirogane, former paladin of Voltron, or crowds of media or well-wishers (or enemies, though that's trickled off) waiting. He knows Earth will be buzzing about his departure, but he can't help that.

Shiro takes one quick glance in the reflection of his datapad before going outside. No one bats an eye at a new ship; this is a port planet of sorts, and arrivals happen every day. He breathes in the air that reminds him of rising yeast, tasting salt and newly-soaked earth.

Travelers and traders and civilians jostle, some exchanging polite greetings. Shiro strolls past them, looking around for the ship he'd memorized for two weeks.

He's gotten more confident in his anonymity, with a few stops on uninhabited planets and one trial run in a bustling, population-laden moon. But this is the first one where he'll likely have to interact with people—even though he's just looking for one.

The streets are paved with a marble-like stone that somehow cushions his step. He stops by a stall and grabs a package-wrapped lunch, something that reminds him of Hunk's sticky barbecue sandwiches. A few children are laughing, kicking around a ball.

It suddenly flies past his head and smacks into the back of someone's head. He hears several gasps and one nervous giggle, but the ball's flies back in a slow arc and an unbothered "Here you go."

Shiro turns.

Keith's giving them a reassuring smile, which immediately vanishes when he sees Shiro's face.

"Keith!" Shiro exclaims, nearly dropping his food, and steps forward with his human arm out.

Keith stiffens in the embrace. He smells like sweat and something sugary, his hair braided in a line down his back, wearing the Blade uniform that has a sash draping over one shoulder.

But arms do come around his back and squeeze once, almost carefully. "Shiro?" he breathes into his ear.

"Yeah," Shiro says, smiling. "It's so good to see you. I hoped I wouldn't miss you."

"Well, you caught me," Keith says, then pulls away. Shiro sees dark circles underneath his eyes, wonders how Keith's been sleeping, if he's had the same dreams as Shiro has.

He pushes that thought away; he isn't meant to think about these things on this trip.

"Do you—are you busy?"

"No," Keith says. His eyes go to Shiro's hand. "I see you got lunch. Let me grab something and we can...catch up, I guess."

Keith buys a series of kabobs nestled in a convenient paper-like bucket, and they head down the road to the trails this planet is known for, all lush green hills dotted with sweet-smelling flowers with a view of the crystal blue ocean.

It lights up at night and is supposed to be beautiful; Shiro's put it on his list since he heard of it from Veronica, who'd returned from her honeymoon with a collection of hats and a wide smile that went on for weeks.

Keith talks about his mission, how he's supposed to stay and observe how the ports are faring after a raid by space pirates (and not particularly nice ones). They'd doubled security and all seemed well, but Kolivan wanted to be sure—he suspected an inside job.

"You're doing it alone?" Shiro asks.

"Yes," Keith says, "but there's reinforcements if needed. Acxa and the others had to go to another planet to help resettle some refugees; I volunteered to stay." He takes a bite of one of his kabobs. "How's your trip going?"

"It's nice," Shiro says. "Better without having to dodge gunfire or attend meetings. The Garrison still loves them, by the way."

"I figured," Keith replies. "Nothing gives Iverson quite a thrill like them."

Shiro smirks. "He likes his visual aids. How's Krolia?"

Keith lights up. "She's been working with Kolivan at Daibazaal. The wolf's with them; he's had space puppies." He digs out his datapad, and holographic images pop up, of tiny blue bundles of fur.

Shiro coos over them. "Are you keeping all of them?"

"Maybe." Keith shrugs in a way that suggests yes. "He's pretty protective. But Mom's been telling me stories of vanishing pups; some have been going into people's homes."

Grinning, Shiro tries to imagine a mini-wolf wagging its tail at a heavily-armored Galra soldier. "Any complaints?"

"No, but it won't be cute for long," Keith says. "Trust me."

Shiro laughs again; he can't remember the last time he's laughed so much. They update each other on the paladins, on old friends and allies, on interplanetary happenings. They get into a light-hearted debate about a terraforming conflict, and end up people-watching at the docks.

Dinner is several plates of dumplings stuffed with things that taste like green onions and tilapia, a few rounds of nunvil, and a large slice of a purple-berried tart. Keith excuses himself to do patrolling, and Shiro reluctantly heads back to his ship.

The rest of their time is filled with mostly walking—or taking hoverbikes—around the planet. He sees the glowing ocean, specks of silvery jellyfish-like creatures swimming in the shallows, with ships coming into port with both familiar and unusual cargo.

Shiro buys himself a sun hat and a few trinkets; Keith doesn't get anything but politely nods through a meandering story from a merchant and plays a quick game of catch with some of the kids Shiro saw on his first day. He smiles more, Shiro at first thinks.

But he comes to realize there's a weight in Keith's voice, his eyes, something serious that hasn't been there. He misses Keith's spark of temper, eyes passionate and fiery, but everything's changed. They're all growing up, moving from war to peace, tempered into starting anew.

Keith can be serious, Shiro knows, but this is a different sort of serious—not tense, exactly, but quiet and restrained. He has a new habit of putting his first finger to his chin in brief thought, or winding his braid absentmindedly while talking. His strides are slower, too, that remind Shiro of a jungle cat. His shoulders are broader, the scar on his cheek slightly faded, and hands slender and calloused. His Blade uniform makes him look taller and more dignified, but he's always willing to bend down to talk to a child, or chat with some of the residents.

He hasn't seen Keith, really, since the wedding.

How did they lose touch, he wonders as they take a boat out. How did they drift apart? How long had it been since they were able to interact like this? He's ashamed to realize it's been longer than he thought.

"Keith," he says, when they're out in the middle of the water. "How have you been doing? Really."

Keith looks at him. "You know what I've been doing."

"I mean...more than that. It's just...I haven't asked. And I'm sorry for that."

"I've been doing fine," Keith says. "Same old, same old."

"But what's that mean?" Shiro presses.

Keith turns away. "Nothing's changed, Shiro. Not with me."

"Your hair's longer," Shiro says, trying for some levity.

"Yeah," Keith says shortly. "That."

"And I heard talk that you might be next in line—or nominated, really, when the elections start."

"I'm not."

"What?"

"I'm not going to be emperor, Shiro. That's not me."

"It might be you. You just don't—"

"Shiro," Keith says, with a bite so sharp and sudden that he's startled. "You don't know me."

Shiro's silent for a moment, stung. "I do," he almost whispers.

"No, you don't," Keith says. His hands clench around the steering controls; he's no longer looking at Shiro. "Not for a long time."

"Keith..."

"Do you really want to know how I am, or are you just being polite? Your due diligence as a _friend?_ Do you expect an honest answer?"

"Of course I do," Shiro says, still startled. He hasn't heard this vitriol from Keith the entire time, for years, even—but never directed at him.

"I despise you."

"What?"

Keith laughs, harshly this time. "I mean I want to. Because, really, you're on this trip, and for what? Some bullshit recovery trip? One last hurrah, then you stay home forever? Everyone knows what you're doing.”

Shiro's throat tightens. "That's not it."

"You and your husband are separated," Keith says bluntly. "This trip was your idea. You told him you needed space. Something isn't working out, and you need to find out on your own? Am I right?"

"That's not—"

"And now you're on this...I don't know, _Eat, Pray, Love_ thing, hoping you can find a solution and go back and be happy. While _he’s_ home holding down the fort—or out of your hair.”

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I don't? Which part is wrong?"

"The trip was my idea, but he's the one who told _me_ he needed space."

Keith's grip loosens a bit.

Shiro stares down at his hand; he hasn't worn the ring for disguise purposes, or so he said to himself. "I love him. I know I do. But I've—" He shakes his head. "I can't. I can't seem to fix things, with him. With us."

"He's kind," Shiro says, "kinder than I deserve. And he's smart and handsome and can be so funny—don't do that, he can be—and his family's so warm and accepting."

"So you married him," Keith says.

"I've always wanted to marry someone," Shiro admits. "Doesn't it seem silly? Even when I thought I wouldn't see past twenty, let alone—Voltron and everything—I always thought of it. Having that person, being bound together, the ceremony and the rings. Coming home to, I don't know, dinner and a roaring fire and comfort."

Shiro looks down at the water, rippling underneath the now-still boat. "And I dated with that in mind, and it never seemed to stick until Adam. It just _happened_ , you know?"

Keith shrugs. "I guess."

"Just this safety and warmth and—what's it like for you?"

"What?"

"Love," Shiro whispers, like a secret. "If...I'm just trying to connect it with you."

"Ah," Keith says stiffly. His hand's pulling his braid in front of his body, twisting and untwisting it like fabric. "I guess it just happens, yeah. Like...gravity or fire. It just sets everything ablaze, it just—rolls in and takes and takes and you taste the smoke, but you can't get out. It fills your lungs and scorches the hair off your skin and _tugs_ and keeps igniting, no matter what you do."

Shiro wants to put a hand on his shoulder, but something stops him.

"I didn't know," he says instead, "that it hurts so much. It doesn't have to."

Keith looks out, eyes resting firmly on the shoreline. "It does when it happens to me."

Shiro wants to reassure him, tell him it's not true, but can’t find the words.

"I guess I wish we had power over who we love," Keith says. "It would be easier, wouldn't it?"

"But not as special," Shiro immediately counters.

"I don't think so."

"Well, I'm a romantic, I guess." Shiro chuckles bitterly. "Like that helped."

Keith seems to snap back to attention. "Right. Well, I don't have any wise advice or anything, if that's what you were looking for when you came here."

"I wasn't," Shiro says honestly. "I just wanted to find you."

"Stop it." Keith’s tone is steel again.

"What?"

"Stop that. I mean it."

"What did I say? I was just—I mean it, Keith. All I wanted to do was just see you again."

"No. No." Keith shakes his head. "No. You came here for another reason. For Curtis. Not for me."

"I—"

"You love him, you said. Then what are you still doing here? This isn't the Shiro I know. The Shiro I know—and is still in there—would _fight._ You go back to him and tell him that, _make_ him see that you love him." Keith throws his braid back over his shoulder and restarts the controls.

"I'm going back,” he says. “You should, too."

* * *

But Shiro doesn't go back.

Not yet, anyway. He fuels up the ship and leaves a note for Keith. It's short—only three lines—and not enough.

But still, Shiro plugs in coordinates that he knows like a favorite song, and glances at his datapad, still shut off from the world.

On there is his list of places, two sets (work and personal) of contact numbers, and a thousand-photo-packed album—the places he was lucky enough to see, the life that he sought to make.

The ship steers itself, but he likes to have his hands on the controls. So maybe he takes a slower route, where he can see glimmering tornadoes of nebulas and lonely moons, and once, a meteor field. He doesn't bump into anyone, and he makes sure his hailing signal's off. Space is nothing but peace; he's missed it.

It's when he spots some debris floating in the dark that he decides to make a detour.

* * *

He remembers the coolness of the cave, the pale stalactites like bared fangs. The cage-like elevator, gates clanging behind him. The rows and rows and rows of copies, silent and sleeping and waiting.

And he remembers Keith.

Rushing at him, wanting _blood_ , feeling like the Champion once more. It was stronger than adrenaline, than lust, Haggar's influence coursing through every cell of his body—but it is all of his mind, too. He knew Keith, knew his moves, knew how to counter, what words to throw

out and wound him. Even now, he's not sure if he can entirely put the blame on Honerva and leave it at that. _Something_ had gone wrong, and something else could, too. No one else knew (no one had known), but he knew the potential consequences.

Before Kerberos, when doctors poked and prodded and laced his veins in electricity and gave him cocktails of medicines and monitoring cuffs, they'd always asked if he was ready. He always said yes. He knew the end of the story, couldn't prevent it, but he said yes.

It was better to try and fight it.

Keith had fought. Keith had—

The feel of a chin crunching underneath his fist—Shiro forces himself to keep walking—the ground underneath his feet, blades colliding, a great shriek of metal tearing—he must keep going— _I love you_ , the smell of burning flesh—

His last word. _Keith._

But it hadn't been the end, after all. Because of Keith.

He never stopped fighting for Shiro's life, even when he himself was ready to surrender.

Didn't he owe Keith, then? Didn't he owe him to do something with that life? To fight?

It takes him a while to get back to the ship; his legs are quavering and he has to climb, using the debris like rocks mounted on a wall. But he knows what he has to at least try.

The ship's waiting for him, and he slips in and turns on his datapad.

It takes a few minutes and more to get what he's looking for—he was right about all those notifications—but he manages, tapping an icon and allowing the hologram to take shape.

"Hey," he says, "I...I'm coming back."

Curtis looks surprised but not disappointed. "Really? I thought it was going to be—"

"No," Shiro says. "An old friend talked some sense into me."

* * *

But marriage, he learns too late, isn't a battle, and nothing he can really win, no matter how much he fights.

He tries, though, more than he probably gave in the months of their courtship. He signs them up for marriage counselling, arranges date nights and vacations, tries to "restart the spark" like the blogs and magazines say. Curtis goes along with it—really, he's _swept_ along with it. He doesn't ask about Shiro's change of mind and doesn't seem to want to dig deeper.

Sometimes, it feels like it's working. He can do this. He can live that life he's always wanted. He can be a good husband and want nothing more.

But he knows he's failing.

He and Curtis have never fought, in all the time they've known each other, content to ride the softly-bobbing tides of life. Domestics sorted themselves out, there was never any begging or cursing or even raised voices, even the paperwork for Garrison officers to date was easy.

Curtis never pressed him, never forced him to talk about Voltron or the war or the conga line of trauma after trauma. He was a soldier, too; he knew when to let things drift or stay hidden beneath the surface.

He only knew easiness with Curtis, wine-filled dinners and newly-painted walls and, yes, sex.

But after months and months, Curtis is the one who says, "Do you want to stop trying?"

"What are you saying?" Shiro demands. "Do you not want..." _The marriage? Me?_

He sits up on the couch, conscious of everything, falling and breaking like dishes in an earthquake. "What do you want? The perfect captain, the Galaxy Garrison golden boy, the Black Paladin—"

"This isn't about that!" Curtis snaps, and it's enough to make Shiro shut up. "I told you, I don't want that, but that's the only person I've been able to see. I want to see _you_ —but you don't want that, do you?"

"No," Shiro says. It's final, sharp against the couch and knick knacks and marriage bed, and the most honest thing he's said.

Curtis closes his eyes, sits down. "I really wanted this to work. But if you can't open up around me, then maybe..."

"I can take another trip. I can arrange more sessions—"

"But will you talk to me?" Shiro's silent. "When you mentioned a friend, I knew Keith was there on one of the planets you mentioned. I know he cares for you, but—"

"No," Shiro says. "He...we don't know each other. Not anymore."

Curtis shakes his head. "I doubt that." He sits down on the chair across from Shiro and folds his hands. "Shiro. I think we need to separate. Permanently, this time."

Shiro shakes his head. "You're being too hasty, Curtis."

"Do you love me?"

"I wouldn't have said yes if—"

"Do you love me?"

"I..." Shiro swallows. "I wanted to get married."

"That's not always love."

Shiro stands up. "Curtis, no. I can _do_ this. I was a paladin, I fought those who wanted to conquer the galaxy, I almost died countless times—I died once—I did _everything_ on Earth before I left." Desperation's bleeding from every syllable now, and he can't stop. "I helped save the universe, Earth. I'm the youngest rank in the Garrison, I survived so much."

He takes a deep breath. "You can't think I can't do this."

Curtis reaches forward and puts a hand on Shiro's knee. "It's not about what you can't do. You're enough for _anyone._ But I don't think I'm enough. Do you?"

* * *

Shiro gets served the papers, and it doesn't hurt as much as he wants it to.

He tries, though, to summon it, angry that it comes up dry. He doesn't cry. He doesn't fight. He doesn't feel anything.

And again, he tries. He tries, like with everything. But at night, he can't summon Curtis's face. When Matt blows up another lab or another interplanetary debate kicks off, it's not Curtis he wants to tell. When a contact pops up on his datapad, it's not Curtis he wants to see.

Hair as black as midnight fills his dreams. A soft smile, a hesitant laugh, a jutted chin, and swathes of sashes and plates of armor. He thinks of hundred-degree afternoons and red dust and wind in his hair. He thinks of falling, with a hand clenched tightly around his wrist.

He starts and never finishes messages. He trails off in conversations. He looks at his list, at the news streams.

And he takes off again—this time, without a concrete plan or any warning, even to the crewmembers on the launch pads.

* * *

He lands on Daibazaal, very quietly. A hood's pulled up over his head for a poor disguise, but he doesn't care. He heads for the palace grounds, ducking around guards and climbing over a wall during a shift change.

When his feet touch the soft grass and delicate juniberries—a peace gift from Altea after the war—he gets knocked to the ground, teeth nicking his throat.

"No," a voice says, low and steady.

Shiro looks up, and sees Keith standing over him and wolf, arms folded. "No," he repeats.

The wolf tilts his head, looks at Shiro, and bares his teeth briefly before slinking back to Keith's side.

"I'm sorry. I just saw a newscast, and I was afraid that—that I'd..." Shiro shakes his head, not even bothering to get off the ground. "You must despise me."

"I don't despise you." Keith reaches out a hand.

Shiro takes it, and Keith pulls him to his feet, fingers holding on for a moment before retreating. The wolf sits at his side, still showing his teeth.

Shiro ducks his head. "I'm not...married anymore."

"I heard about that," Keith simply replies.

"You're under no obligation. I just..." Shiro looks at his toes. What _is_ he doing here? He doesn’t blame the wolf the least bit for charging him. "I never loved Curtis as I should. I never fought for him, and I don't want to."

He knows he has to look Keith in the eye, but courage fails him. "I want to fight for you. And I know what I've done—I can't ask forgiveness for that. I can't take away the pain I caused you, both now and _there._ I remember what I did, and that scared me. And you wanting to fight for me, even then—that scared me, too."

Keith's silent.

"I," Shiro begins.

And Keith hugs him.

Shiro sinks into the embrace, burying his face into his hair, hands shaking, but this is _right_ , this is Keith, this is home. "I love you," he breathes.

Keith pulls away. "No."

His arms are folded over his chest protectively, the wolf again growls. "No. I've been second to everyone and everything my whole life, and you—you and Adam and Curtis and—I won't be the person you settle for because you can't have that life you wanted. I won't do it."

" _You're_ the life I want."

Keith looks at him, searching for a lie, and Shiro knows that he won't find one—and Keith knows him. He knows Shiro better than anyone, every facet, every projection, everything, even after all of this time.

And when Keith kisses him, Shiro thinks he was right, in some way. It _is_ like fire. But there's absolutely no carnage in the wake, nothing charred or split open or ash.

Fire scorches, but it heals. There's always a new beginning.


End file.
